


To Keep You Warm

by dorcasdeadowes



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Body Horror, Body Image, Domestic Violence, Gore, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Suicidal Thoughts, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 04:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17953625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcasdeadowes/pseuds/dorcasdeadowes
Summary: "Dechtire’s mother was a baker. Dechtire would soon be something as well. In the meantime, she kneaded what needed kneading and took great joy in the solitude of facing the wall with fistfuls of flour."(Title taken from 'Only Skin' by Joanna Newsom)





	To Keep You Warm

**Part One**

Humans were not frequent guests with the Frigabror. In fact, during her near thirty years of life, Dechtire had seen neither guest nor human within the clan’s settlement.

Until Hubert.

From the hilltop village the clan called home, any abnormality in the surrounding forest was promptly seen, investigated, and dealt with. And in recent years the forest had been suffering. The trees and bushes were laden with diseased fruits; the animal population dwindled. So, when a great billowing smoke began to rise from the trees below, panic ensued.

They found him unconscious, skin clouded with blistering burns and settled smoke. As the scouting party returned with the man slung over a shoulder, whispers swelled and crashed from the centre of the chaos, to the outskirts of the community. To those who kept to themselves as best they could in such a contained world.

And so Dechtire found herself pulling at the frayed edges of threads of rumour within the first hour and could not help but pound the pavement alongside her peers.

A crowd had gathered around Egil and Stigr’s home (Egil was renowned among the Frigabror for his healing, Stigr for his uncanny ability to know if a stew needed more salt at a single glance). Stigr sat outside with his arms and legs folded as he lounged on a log, pipe in his mouth, and a hand up to indicate he was not available for conversation.

“Is there really a human in there?” cried out one.

“Is he dying?”

“Is he sick? Is he contagious?”

In the battle of wills between the crowd and Stigr’s hand, the hand was the clear victor.

If the forest had been in better health, they might have whiled away the night’s palpable energy with food, drink, and dancing. Instead they took to bed with screaming stomachs, the need for rest dancing a restless, ceaseless tango with curiosity.

Morning broke and society remained. There were jobs that needed doing and while the odd piece of gossip might be indulged here and there, sustaining the stronghold, the people within, and the forest without, was always held above all else.

The Frigabror kept to the code as well as any respectable Firbolg clan.

“Bravery, effort, and honour over birth,” they taught. “The clan’s honour over yours,” they embedded into the bones of their children, generation after generation. “The blood of the runt is the blood of a king. Give a thousand for nothing. Truth is the honour of the Clan.”

One for all. All for one.

And a piece for the dying outsider.     

For all were cared for in equal measure.

Dechtire’s mother was a baker. Dechtire would soon be something as well. In the meantime, she kneaded what needed kneading and took great joy in the solitude of facing the wall with fistfuls of flour.

That day was different, though. That day she strained her bat-like ears to pick up any news on their guest. That day she did not hum to herself to drown out the chatter. That day her mother did not scold her for making folks uneasy when they came to receive their bread rations. That day she did not bite back that folks in general made her uneasy and that she didn’t complain.

Instead, when her mother did approach her, she whispered, “Take this to Egil. Be discreet,” before slipping something warm and heavy into the pocket of Dechtire’s apron.

Dechtire gave a firm nod and swallowed the rising hope for satisfied curiosity.

Nobody paid much mind to her as she meandered her way across town; nobody expected her to begin a conversation; nobody’s head was trained to incline towards her.

Not even Stigr noted her presence at first.

“Excuse me,” she said with a soft caution before, after an uncomfortable moment on her part, she repeated, “Excuse me.”

His round blue eyes gave a bat, a blink of acknowledgement.

“Ove’s girl,” he barked.

“Yes,” she replied, staring at the point where Stigr’s thick right foot balanced on his thick left knee. “I’ve brought bread.”

“In you go then.”

“I… I – I don’t,” she stammered.

“Egil’s been talking to Iallanis all morning. I don’t think he’ll leave her alone until she talks back. Just place it by the bed so our patient can help himself.”

Dechtire nodded and trembled and made her way forwards.

As she entered, she found that Stigr had not been embellishing. Egil knelt before his garland of Iallanis, larger than any other she’d seen before in any other home. Their own hung on the back of the front door, so that they might remember the goddess every time they passed through.

This garland, all reds, yellows, and full blooms, was wide enough to bind four Firbolg’s together comfortably.

Egil did not stand to greet her, did not glance her way to see who might be trespassing in his home, did not stop muttering rapidly under his breath some prayer or other to Iallanis.

Perhaps he truly would not stop until the goddess herself replied.

Perhaps he trusted his mate so absolutely in his ability to protect their home.

Past flowers and prayers, sat a sturdy wooden bed. At first, Dechtire thought it was empty. And then, after a step or two to close the distance, she saw him.

Humans were small. She knew this. But this human looked especially small drowning in a bed built for two fully grown Firbolg men.

He was handsome though, she mused, moving softly ever forward so as not to disturb his sleep. The moment she placed the bread upon the side table, an eye opened over her shoulder and bore into her periphery.

“Hello,” the human said in a croak of a whisper.

“Hello,” she replied, mimicking his volume.

His open eye landed on the still-kneeling form of Egil and widened pointedly before twitching shut.

“He’s been doing that all morning,” he breathed. “I’m bored out of my mind. But he won’t let me leave yet.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“He thinks I’m an omen of some sort. He’d like to know the sort.”

Then both eyes flew open as he sat bolt upright.

Dechtire flinched.

“Excuse me Good Sir,” he called out to where Egil knelt about ten feet from the foot of the bed, “I do have things to be doing.”

Egil did not flinch.

The human reached for a pillow and launched it across the room. It skimmed Egil’s forehead and Egil did not flinch.

At this, the human let out a groan and slumped back into his remaining pillows.

“What are you here for?” he asked with a sigh of surrender, settling his attention on Dechtire.

Dechtire tried her very best to shrink into the non-existent shadow.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said with a laugh. “I’m very bored. Won’t you talk with me?”

Then he patted the great expanse of bed beside him as though he expected her to sit.

“I brought bread,” she said.

“Then we’ll share bread while we talk.”

“That’s a waste of good bread. You need it to regain your strength.”

“I’m strong enough.”

It was getting harder not to snap her gaze up to meet his, especially when he was practically pulling her focus, smirking in the blurry edges of reality.

Suppressing a smile, a blush, a crack in her resolve, Dechtire reached for the bread and passed it over blindly, standing only as close as needed.

It was close enough for him to really look at her though.

The blood of the runt was the blood of a king. Her blood was that of a runt, truly. It being that of a king had yet to be seen.

Still, if it wasn’t for this ideal, Dechtire would likely not have survived infancy. She was born four months too early, significantly shy of the two year mark most Firbolg pregnancies met. The clan diligently cared for and doted on their new burden, watched her grow from a pale and scrawny child into a pale and gawky woman. Her skin stayed ashen, devoid of the blushes of colour, both bright and subtle, that graced her fellows. Only the skeletal juxtaposition of black against white. Only the patches and marks which scattered her body in an assortment of shapes and sizes. Paired with a gauntness no amount of time had managed to fill out, she gave the impression of being chipped in places, so very fragile and hollow that one might tap her incorrectly and cause a collapse. And, at barely seven feet in height, she was by far the shortest of the full-grown members of her clan. With heavy features her face had filled out well enough to properly carry.

All the inspecting. All the empty praises. All the, “Look at you, so big and strong, so healthy looking,” comments.

It did nothing for her abhorrence of attention. Especially when she knew exactly how she looked.

Jarring.

She waited for the human to finish his inspection and wondered if he would tell his people of the ugly Firbolg woman who haunted his dreams.

“My word!” he cried. “Your eyes are enormous, aren’t they?”

“Oh,” she said.

“That’s good. I know lots of people who spend hours in the morning painting their face so that their eyes look half as big as yours.”

“Oh,” she repeated dumbly, before adding, “Thank you.”

“This bread is also probably a bit too Firbolg-sized for my stomach. Won’t you have a bit?”

His features were delicate. His hair was a mess of yellow fluff. His bones protruded in places.

And yet, he did not look weak.

“I should get back home. Ma needs me.”

With raised eyebrows and a conceding wave of his hand, she felt adequately dismissed. And, with her curiosity more than satisfied, she decided not to think on it any further.

Yet, as evening’s ocean sky swallowed the world whole, Dechtire was swallowed back down into the bowels of the incident.

Hammers, rolling pins, and longbows alike had been laid to rest until morning and the curious had formed another crowd outside Egil and Stigr’s home.

There would be no entering discreetly. But her presence had been requested.

“He’s still waiting on a reply,” said Stigr, stifling a yawn with the rusty back of his hand. “If you can get him to stop long enough to fucking eat something I’ll owe you one.”

“I don’t want to interrupt.”

“And I don’t want him to stave. Here,” and he plucked a plump stone fruit from the pocket of his vest. “His favourite.”

He moved as though meaning to toss the fruit to her, then thought better of the possible waste. Instead he held it up in his palm in offering.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised.

A great grin spread across his face before breaking with another yawn.

The fire had not been lit inside. Smudges of candlelight in the odd corner were all that allowed her to see.

The skin of Egil’s knees were likely scraped raw under the weight of the unbroken, iron chain of his faith.

“Egil,” she called out softly. “Egil, Stigr asked me to bring you this.”

When he did not halt his prayers, Dechtire placed the fruit on the floor before him.

“I’m just leaving it here,” she said.

He did not reply.

Another voice, however, from one of the many shadows, did.

“A waste of good fruit if you ask me.”

After a clumsy jump and swivel, her eyes found the human. He had moved from beneath the covers to lounge atop. Perhaps it was because she could see the length of his legs, or perhaps it was simply a trick of the light, but he looked taller.

“Hello,” she said.

“I’m sure you’ve finished your work for the day.”

“Yes. Did you need me to fetch you something?”

“Wine?”

She shook her head.

“We have ale,” she offered.

The wine was for trading and funerals only. They could not afford to pop a bottle every evening.

“I’d rather stay parched,” he replied.

“I’m very sorry. Was that all?”

“No!” he cried. “Of course not. Take a seat.”

After a fruitless search for a nearby chair, she resigned herself to perching on the edge of the bed.

Once she had, he pressed on, “Now, let us have that talk we were deprived of earlier.”

A knowing smile graced his face, a smile that pulled at the pit of her stomach. It was comforting and uncomfortable all at once.

“I’m not good at talking,” she said.

“That works out fantastically. I’m an awful listener.”

His smiled widened and this time it pulled at the corners of her mouth.

“Won’t you tell me your name though?” he asked. “I promise I’ll pay attention long enough to learn it.”

“Dechtire.”

He repeated it, the pronunciation slightly off.

“Deck-tir-ra,” she sounded out for him.

“Deck-tir-ra.”

“Yes.”

“My name is Hubert.”

“Hubert.”

“Perfect.”

It wasn’t a name she’d ever heard before, but she thought it suited him well. He’d gotten it from his father’s father, she learnt, which was apparently quite a normal thing to do, pass on a name.

“I never met the man,” he mused, elbow on the bedframe, hand buried in his own hair, “From paintings, though, it seems I inherited his face as well.”

“Handsome then?” asked Dechtire, breathless and entirely by accident.

Hubert laughed while she felt something deep within her shrivel and die.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, quite. And he was the one who set our family up in Mariesham – undoubtedly the most beautiful city in the country. My father moved us away for business and I always vowed to buy a house there myself when I was old enough.”

“And did you?”

“Of course! I’m a man of my word.”

It was Dechtire’s turn to laugh; half nervousness, half humour.

By the time that sleepiness trumped their desire to keep talking, the crowd outside had dissipated.

Dechtire crept past Egil and noticed that, although the man was still murmuring his prayers, the fruit she’d left by his knees had been reduced to its stone.

Crawling into bed with her mother, Dechtire prayed she would not be woken.

“Where have you been?” said Ove, so quickly and clearly it became evident that she had not yet slept.

“I was helping with the human.”

“Good girl,” said her mother, reaching a hand over her shoulder so as to pat Dechtire wherever she could reach. “It’s good for you to help out, to join in. You worry me sometimes.”

“I know.”

The following morning, before Dechtire could so much as tie her apron, she was called upon once again. This time by Egil himself.

“Egil!” cried Ove. “We thought perhaps the human had killed you.”

It was punctuated with a laugh on her part, but neither Egil nor Dechtire joined her. With only a glance over her shoulder, Dechtire could see how the past twenty-four hours had drained the man. She wondered what had driven him to kneel for so long, and what had caused him to finally give up.

Weakly, Egil said, “Actually, Dechtire, I’m here for you.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she tossed her apron to one side and followed Egil out of the door.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, jogging to keep up with Egil’s enormous strides.

“Hmm? Oh. No. Sorry. It’s all fine. The human-”

“Hubert,” she interjected.

“Hubert the human,” he said with a smile, “Is leaving. He said he needed to see you first, though. That’d he’d wait around as long as it took. I’d quite like to get my house back so I came for you straight away.”

Upright and pacing the floor, Hubert was probably only ten inches shorter than her. Still, it was enough to make her feel tall for once.

“My dear, Dechtire,” he cried.

With a few hurried steps he was inches away, reaching for a hand she subconsciously offered.

“Be quick,” said Egil, ducking out the front door. “I’m rather tired.”

“You wanted to say goodbye?” she asked, feeling his grip tighten.

“That is absolutely not what I want.”

“Oh.”

“I want you to come home with me.”

Her heart shuddered and started.

“Sorry?”

“Come home with me.”

“I… what for?”

Hubert let out a roaring laugh, head thrown back, all teeth.

Once he had settled, he said, “So we can be married of course.”

Dechtire was young, still had plenty of time to find a mate, but she had never thought it likely. Her mother scolded this pessimism.

“This ridiculous obsession with you being ugly,” she’d hiss, “You’re small, yes, and pale, but you’re beautiful nonetheless.”

Of course, mothers were often blinded by love. Dechtire did not think this would ever extend to anyone else.

Yet here he was.

And there he was going.

Where she could not follow.

“I’m sorry,” she said, cursing herself as she did, “I can’t leave.”

“Why ever not?”

“This is my home.”

“My house can be your home.”

“And with the forest in the state that it is,” she pressed on, “We need all the hands we can get to keep the clan from starving.”

“One less stomach to feed.”

“Hubert.”

“Dechtire.”

“I can’t abandon my people.”

He released his hold on her hands and as they dropped to her side they felt heavier than usual. Her breath stuck in her chest as she waited for his next move.

“You’re a tricky one,” he said, after a few seconds silence, “I’ll figure it out though. Don’t you worry about that.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll see.”

And with that, a wink, and a kiss pressed to the back of one still-heavy hand, Hubert departed.

Two months passed before Hubert arrived back in town, emerging from a stunning and untarnished carriage.

As the news crept through the clan, Dechtire stared downwards, trying to keep the tiny lump of dough from tearing beneath her hands.

“This is half the size of last week’s!” she heard Brigida complaining.

Brigida always complained about the size of the bread. But she wasn’t wrong. And neither were the hundred others who turned up for their bread rations only to be handed a crumb.

In a tired voice, Ove spouted her practiced reply, “It’s only until the merchant party returns from the South. They’ll have supplies. Including flour. Until then, we’re doing the best we can.”

Complaint after complaint became a wall of noise to Dechtire and she hummed to keep herself calm.

Until her mother cried out her name.

“Sorry,” she said. “I know you hate it when I hum.”

“No. Weren’t you listening to Altair?” said Ove, rushing to Dechtire’s side. “That human is back.”

She’d kept her goodbye with Hubert a well-guarded secret. At first she’d lain awake at night, imagining all the scenarios in which he would return; most very romantic; a couple horrific and mortifying.

As week piled onto week, the fantasies faded as did the hope she would ever see him again.

Marriage itself was not a Firbolg construct.

But promising yourself to one person forever, being partners, lovers until death – that was a very Firbolg thing to do. It was something Dechtire very much wanted to do.

Her stomach, however, screamed so loud and so often for a decent meal that she felt foolish for indulging in fantasies of anything so frivolous.

“Really?” she asked coolly. “I wonder why.”

This was not a lie.

Suspicion was not confirmation.

The two months of distance must have set his mind right. Perhaps he simply wanted to properly offer his gratitude. Or only to return the horse he’d ridden home on.

Still, she couldn’t say her imagination didn’t wander towards a second proposal.

“Dechtire!” cried Ove.

Blinking and shuddering, reality collided with her once more.

“Sorry, Ma,” she said, looking down at the dough she’d torn into tiny pieces. “I was just… wondering very hard.”

“So it would seem. You spent a lot of time with that man, didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say a lot.”

Then, booming from the doorway, Hubert called out, “Oh, you wouldn’t?”

Both women leapt an inch or two in the air.

“Sorry,” he said, striding towards them with the lopsided smile of someone who was anything but sorry. “I didn’t intend to startle.”

His hair was swept back, properly combed and coiffed. The tattered clothing which had lost edges and patches to the fire he was found in had been replaced with a silken shirt and embroidered jacket. Yet his legs were armoured, as though he had removed a steel chest plate before walking in. He had certainly lost that air of vulnerability he bore in her memory.

Before she could begin to fathom a single world, Hubert had strode towards her and fell down to one knee.

She heard her mother let out an exclamation which could not be repeated in polite company.

For the first time she saw Hubert shaken.

“I didn’t realise we had an audience,” he laughed, quickly recovering.

“My mother,” said Dechtire quickly.

In a second, Hubert was upright.

He bound over to Ove and, with a deep bow, said, “My apologies.” Then, upright, he added, “I am here with the intention of taking your daughter as my wife.”

And there it was.

“Oh,” said Ove. “Right. Well, she’s flattered I’m sure-”

“Ma,” whispered Dechtire urgently.

Ove eyed her daughter. Dechtire eyed her right back.

Hubert said, “Of course, when I was here just a few months ago, your lovely daughter explained why it was she could not leave. I promised to be back with a solution. And here I am. Would you let me place my new offer on the proverbial table?”

“I didn’t realise you had already made an offer,” said Ove, eyes boring ever deeper into Dechtire’s, not sparing a glance for Hubert.

“Ma-”

“I have,” said Hubert, striding to stand between the two women, “A way to solve everything. Now, in a carriage on course for this very town, I have packed food and wine. Enough to feed the whole clan twice over for a week. Or, I suppose, for two weeks. But, if you,” and his lopsided smile spread wider as he pointed a long finger at Dechtire, “My dear, will agree to return home with me, then I can ensure the clan eats twice over forever.”

A stunned silence fell over the room and Hubert looked a little more than pleased with himself.

Ove spoke first.

“Now, that is a very generous offer,” she said. “Would you mind if my daughter and I took a moment to discuss it in private?”

“Of course,” said Hubert.

Dechtire met his gaze and could not help but blush as he winked on his way out.

He could not have been far from hearing distance when Ove began her rant.

“The nerve of that man!” she cried. “Trying to buy you off of us.”

“Ma-”

“Holding our famine over our heads while we were the ones who dragged him from that fire, healed him, and shared our food with him.”

“Ma!”

Ove started and Dechtire wondered for a moment if she’d ever raised her voice at her mother before. Had she ever raised her voice at all?

After a moment, Ove let out a sigh of disbelief and said, “You want to run away with this madman, don’t you?”

“I don’t think it would be terrible.”

“You want to go?”

“I don’t know. But I can’t exactly say no now, can I?”

“You absolutely can. If you want to go then go, but you have no responsibility to do so.”

“What does the code say?” asked Dechtire pointedly.

“A fair few things.”

“Give a thousand for nothing. Whether I want to or not”

“This isn’t the way we do things. We stand on our own.”

“We’re not standing, Ma,” she whispered desperately, “We’re falling to our knees, clutching our stomachs, and screeching.”

“The seasons will change, and the forest will thrive once more. And when that happens, you have just as much a right as any of us to see it.”

“I have nothing to offer. I have no place here. If I ever do any good, then this will be it.”

Ove snorted, “You are young. You have no idea who or what you’ll be.”

“I’ll be his wife.”

It seemed that Ove might reply, but her mouth hung open and motionless, eyes glazed over.

“Ma.”

“No. You go. Clearly, your mind’s made up. No point in begging.”

“Ma,” she pressed, “It’ll be fine. It’ll be good.”

“You’ve decided to be in love with him?”

Dechtire shook her head softly and said, “I barely know him. But, I could love him. I think I could.”

The conversation had soured beyond sweetening. Not without one saying they were wrong. Not without apologies.

“I’ll visit you,” tried Dechtire.

“Okay.”

“And you’ll visit me?”

Ove raised a hand to her daughter’s cheek, rubbing a thumb over the soft scattering of black on white.

**Part Two**

Although Hubert had spent most of their journey describing to Dechtire the details of the wonders of her new home, he had failed to mention the way the people behaved.

As they rode in, Dechtire clutching at the lapels of his jacket from behind, this was the first thing she noticed.

Yes, the buildings sprawled ahead for such a distance she couldn’t see the walls of the city itself. Yes, there were towering temples of various Gods. Yes, there were shop fronts and market stalls advertising items she’d never even heard of before.

But the people weaved through all this, around one another, with barely an acknowledgement. Here and there a meeting of two friends disrupted this flow. But the flow itself was that of solitude regardless of the crowd.

“How many people live in Mariesham?” she breathed.

“Oh, I have no idea,” he replied. “A few thousand perhaps? Ten thousand?”

The difference between those thousands was nothing. What was something, was that this man, who had grown up there, who had missed it so much when relocated in his teenage years he moved back the moment he could, couldn’t even make a reasonable guess.

It was unsettling. It was comforting.

It doubled that pulsing warmth in her chest as she leaned closer against Hubert’s back.

So much of her attention was spent staring at people who were staring at the cobbled street they walked on, she was startled by the sudden stop.

Hubert dismounted first, offering her a helping hand down.

“It’s enormous,” she said, blinking at the building before her. “That’s… Just one house?”

Hubert only smiled.

It was a great stout thing; wide as it was tall; grey-bricked and many-windowed.

“How many people live here?” she asked.

“Well, there’s me, you now, of course, and then Ulmer.”

“And?”

“Sometimes we employ more servants. When my parents come to stay. I’m home so rarely, though, it seems a waste to fully staff the place.”

What a waste of space, she thought.

What a wonderful amount of space for her to simply exist within, without being seen, she thought.

Except for Ulmer.

“Who is Ulmer?” she said.

“The real question is where, not who. I can’t leave my horse unattended.”

“Ulmer looks after the horse?”

“Ulmer looks after everything,” he said, then, in a shout, “Ulmer, you old fool!”

Dechtire watched the big green door, just as Hubert did, and she said nothing as Hubert continued to fling gentle insults at it.

Ulmer was a shuffling old human who took almost as long to make it to the end of the ten-foot path as it had to make it to the house’s front door.

“Apologies, sir,” he wheezed, pulling out a dirty piece of cloth and coughing into it. “I didn’t expect you home until tomorrow morning.”

“We rode on horseback. I was desperate to show my lovely bride here her new home. Not to mention, I’ve grown terribly wary of carriages. It’s far too easy for them to catch fire.”

Hubert laughed at his own joke as Ulmer shuffled towards the horse.

“Right,” said Hubert, “Let me give you the grand tour.”

There were three bedrooms, two washrooms, five sitting rooms, two studies, one room for just a piano, and an entire floor beneath the house she was told not to worry about.

“That’s just the kitchen, the wine cellar, Ulmer’s chambers,” said Hubert, “Nothing of interest. What do you think?”

“It’s… just so many rooms.”

He laughed, “You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t know how.”

His smile was contagious.

“Now,” he said, “Let’s go get married.”

A panic set in. She didn’t have anything nice to wear, had been hoping there would be time for her to fix up something old or sew something from scratch.

It seemed unlikely there was anything lying around the house that would fit a Firbolg. Even a smallish one.

Perhaps seeing the panic reflected in her giant eyes, Hubert added, “It’ll be fine. Over in a moment. The temple’s just around the corner.”

“Okay.”

Firbolg’s didn’t necessarily have weddings. You sort of just knew when two people were together forever; mated for life.

But she knew other cultures and races often made a big deal of that sort of thing and had steeled herself for something gaudy. Or, at the very least, something with witnesses.

“Fantastic,” he cried, grabbing her hand and bounding out into the street.

Dechtire had never considered herself a particularly religious person, but there was something that did not sit comfortably inside her as she was led into the great echoing chamber of a temple to a God whose name she did not know, a God who she was supposed to be married before.

She looked around desperately for a painting or statue that might put a face to the God, but the shining golden walls were adorned only with row after row of candle.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, turning to take in every flickering flame, and the way in which they danced with shadow and glints of gold.

“It is, isn’t it?” Hubert mused. “We would come here for festivals when I was a child. The temple of Denier in Rednagh was much bigger, but there was less character I suppose. I like this one better.”

“Not too many candles?” she said, an attempt at a joke.

“There’s never enough candles, my dear.”

The dancing lights were a wonderful point of focus as the attendant stared Dechtire down during the entire ceremony. Even when addressing Hubert, he looked at Dechtire.

Trembling, she did not hear a single word of Hubert’s vow to her, could not look anywhere but the wall.

So, when it was her turn to promise herself to him, she was shocked to see that he had suddenly grown. So had the attendant.

No.

That was silly.

Nobody had grown.

But there she stood, eye to eye with the man she was marring, at the exact same height.

She’d never shrunk herself down before; she’d made herself seem taller from time to time when she felt particularly towered over, she’d turned herself into a less conspicuous looking thing when walking through the streets. But it wasn’t something she’d fallen on since childhood.

“I, Dechtire,” she began shakily, ignoring the questioning look on Hubert’s face.

Her face was on fire, her words were in disarray, and when she was finished (when they were married) she was towering over Hubert once more.

“How did you do that?” he asked her afterwards.

She rushed from the front door to the spiralling wooden staircase, knowing it was futile.

“Dechtire,” he called.

She swivelled on the spot, halfway between the two floors. A tear or two trickled from one of her big brown eyes, matting the hair on the cheek below.

“What on earth has gotten into you?” he said. “You practically ran home.”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” she said in a half-whisper.

“To do what?”

“To make myself look smaller.”

“Okay.”

“I wasn’t trying to make a scene.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“I just got so muddled.”

“It’s fine.”

At that, she felt the tears quicken.

Hubert hurried up the stairs and laid a gentle hand on the small of her back.

“My dear,” he said softly, “I was hoping our wedding night might be a little less sombre.”

She let out a choked noise somewhere between laughter and sobbing.

“Why don’t we get into bed and relax?” he asked.

After a fervent nod, she followed her husband’s lead up the next two floors to what Hubert had presented as his bedroom. She was glad that she would be sharing his bed. Her desire for solitude tended to fade with the setting sun. Sleeping alone was never something far more foreign to her than this city, its buildings, its people, or even its Gods. 

Growing up, she had shared a room with both her parents, an aunt, five cousins, and two brothers, albeit never all at once.

Her father passed, her brothers moved in with their mates, and her mother’s sister moved in with her five children all before she turned ten.

Sharing a bed with three other girls, all older than her, none particularly fond of their odd runt of a cousin, hadn’t been exactly pleasant.  But as they moved on, one by one, and she was left alone under the sheets, it was much harder to sleep. So, she climbed into bed with her mother. And when her aunt decided to take off into the great wide world with a dream of selling handmade jewellery, they gave all but one bed away.

Sometimes (very rarely) her mother would slip an arm around Dechtire and pull her close until her breathing evened and she began to snore.

She couldn’t help but wonder if Hubert would pull her close, if he would so much as kiss her. Naivete was not a quality she had thought herself to possess. It wasn’t as though she didn’t understand the mating aspect of having a mate. What she couldn’t understand that he might want it from her.

Before her thoughts wandered into the familiar darkness, she decided to just change into her night clothes, to crawl under the silken sheets, and to wait to see what he might do.

He did not undress with care. Regardless of their cost, clothing was scattered along the floor or thrown over a nearby wooden chair. Once he was completely naked, he made no moves to redress himself in anything else. Instead he pulled a heavy curtain slightly ajar and let a slither of his face be bathed in moonlight.

Her desire to question his behaviour was eclipsed by the fear that sat heavily on the back of her tongue. So, she continued to wait, watching the way the white light painted him almost as pale as her.

After a beat, he turned to her and, with the illuminated eye, gave a familiar wink. An involuntary giggle escaped Dechtire and suddenly he was crawling across the bed towards her, not only holding her close to him, put pushing himself close against her, burying himself within her.

A fierce ambivalence settled in afterwards.

She was giddy. Overwhelmingly giddy. A giddiness she had not truly felt the depth of since playing children’s games. A giddiness which surged strongest the moment Hubert had seized her jaw and said, “My God, those truly are the biggest eyes I have ever seen in my life.”

Equal parts giddy, equal parts terrified.

Terrified, in a bizarre twist on the usual way she felt it, of the fleetingness of that moment, the uncertainty of it all.

Cold chills ran along every part of her body he had laid a finger on, every part he was no longer so much as brushing against. He did not pull her close when he had finished with her. He did not need the warmth of her body against his to begin snoring.

Sleep did not take her as easily. It was more like trying to breathe under water, forcing her head down until instinct had her pulling out, gasping for air.

When Hubert rose, Dechtire was wide-eyed and awake.

He whispered a stale, “Morning,” patted her cheek, and began to pull pieces of clothing from an ornate wardrobe, discarding several on the floor behind him before settling on an outfit for the day.

Then she blinked and he was gone, and the sunshine that pooled beneath the curtains had brightened considerably.

It felt like midday and when she finally tracked down Ulmer (elbow deep in one of the countless fireplaces) he confirmed afternoon had just broken.

“Thank you,” she said. “Is Hubert home?”

“Mr Baryth has gone to attend to some business.”

Dechtire wanted to ask what business but felt too embarrassed for not knowing. He’d told her anecdotes of dealing with clients, of irritating business partners, but he’d never given away any specifics of his work. It had something to do with art and a lot to do with money.

“Does the lady of the house have any plans for today?” asked Ulmer.

After a pause, she said, “Do we have any flour?”

Not only was there flour, the pantry overflowed with spices, herbs, fruits, vegetables, extracts, and meats upon meats. She hadn’t seen a pantry so full since the forest fell ill.

Ulmer hovered as though he might be of help at first, but once she began to organise ingredients and hum loudly as she did, he simply pointed out which oven was best for baking before returning to his work.

It had been a good few years since she’d had the chance to bake a pie and she had never used any oven other than the one at home so the first one came out a little crispy. The next two attempts were far better, and the fourth pie was so beautiful she considered presenting it to Hubert for an after-dinner treat. But dinner came and went long before Hubert stumbled in through the front door, heavy footsteps above the kitchen, singing in cacophony with at least three other men.

“Where is my wife?” he called out through the house.

The dish Dechtire had been holding slipped through her fingers and landed with a clatter in the basin beneath.

Floorboards creaked overhead, obscuring already-muffled voices.

A small part of her mind told her that if she stayed completely still, he’d be unable to find her. She did not know why she didn’t want him to find her, only that she must not be found. A five second flash passed during which she subconsciously turned invisible, but then she was present and solid again.

The creaking streamed from above her head until it became heavy thuds on the stone steps.

She stilled her breath and body as best she could, but Hubert’s eyes settled on her immediately.

“What on earth are you doing?” he asked, nose scrunched as he took him her soapy hands and dirty apron.

“I was-”

“And what is that smell?”

“Apple and blackcurrant pie,” she replied weakly.

“Why?”

“I made some.”

At this, he scoffed, harsh and unamused.

“Do you want a piece?” she asked.

With a roll of his eyes, he said, “Come to the study when you’ve cleaned yourself up.”

It was not an offer.

Dechtire slunk upstairs when she could no longer hear people in the hallway above. After double-checking her nails for any traces of flour, she tried to figure out the right thing to wear.

She did not have to guess which study the men had retired to; the laughter and screaming left a clear trail to the right door, open only a fraction, enough so that she would have to knock.

“Is that my wife?” cried Hubert.

The door flung open before she could respond, and she found herself the sudden object of appraisal.

Hubert and four male friends were spread across the room in various positions. Hubert himself was sat behind the desk, legs kicked up, wine glass in hand, an air of a king about him. His subjects leaned upon cabinets, armchairs, and one had his elbow resting on the marble head of a marble bust.

The one by the bust fell into a fit of giggles and was soon joined by his fellows. Hubert, however, remained stoic.

“This must be a joke, Bertie!” cried another.

“You’ve truly brought home the prize cow!” added the first.

Hubert’s wine glass shattered against the right-hand wall, barely missing one of his guest’s heads.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed the near-victim, pulling off his jacket and checking for stains.

“Get out,” said Hubert coldly.

“Sorry,” said Dechtire immediately, falling back into the shadowy hallway.

“Not you!” cried Hubert. “The rest of you.”

Eyes rolling, one by one, the men pushed their way past Dechtire who had stopped dead in her tracks. Once the front door slammed, a minute or two later, Hubert addressed her.

“Come here,” he said, almost softly.

She turned on her heel and saw he had produced another glass, had already filled it with wine.

“I don’t take kindly to my colleagues insulting my wife,” he explained, swilling the red liquid before gulping down almost half the glass.

“Thank you,” she said, because she felt as though she had to.

He gave a small smile. She tried to hold back tears.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said after far too long.

She stayed a few steps behind as she followed him upstairs in a cruel parody of the night before.

He did not bother to undress this time, simply gestured for her to get on the bed and unbuckled his trousers as he hovered over her.

In the few seconds before he collapsed into deep sleep beside her, he managed to say, “You are an ugly thing, aren’t you?”

And then the tears came hard and fast.

She did not sleep that night, could not relax under the weight of his arm, felt her skin burn in all the places his skin touched hers.

When he finally stirred, Dechtire squeezed her eyes shut prayed in vain that he wouldn’t try to wake her.

“Deck-tir-ra,” he sang, dragging out each syllable of her name. “Deck-tir-raaaaaaa”.

She feigned waking as best she could.

“Morning,” he said, grinning up at her as he placed his head on her stomach.

“Morning,” she said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“We should get up and get ready for the day. I’m sure there’s something fun going on in town. Maybe somewhere we can go dancing.”

Never in her life before had she danced in front of people, let alone with another person. Public dancing, however, felt like the easiest thing in the world compared to arguing with Hubert.

“Okay,” she said, smiling down at him and running her fingers through his hair.

He buried himself further into her and widened his sweet smile.

So, it was decided. She would be in love with him. Her heart would flutter at the sight of his smile. She would knead herself until she rose just right.

Perhaps, in time, she’d learn to blindly walk through the labyrinth of his expectations.

 

 

**Part Three**

Most days, the fire of martyrdom was enough to keep her burning. Other days she was on the edge of baking poison into a pie and taking them both to the grave in a single meal.

But that was only on other days.

Most days were a puzzle she delighted in hating to solve.

For weeks at a time he would be gone away for work, assessing the value of some work of art in some corner of the world.

She would read or sew or bake as she indulged in her seclusion. After old-age took Ulmer, she committed herself to cleaning.

Sometimes Hubert was so overjoyed at the sight of his wife with a mop in hand he would press kisses into the back of her neck as he bent her over the bannister. Sometimes he would hurl insults as she dusted the ceiling.

“You are the lady of the house,” he’d sneer, “What does it look like that I have my wife cleaning cobwebs for me?”

But she had grown not to care what she made him look like, grown not to care when he took strange women to their bed, grown not to care when he snuck into the guest room she had taken for her own and whispered sweetly of the brown of her eyes.

Until finally, most days she considered reaching for the poison and only some days did she simply enjoy the luxury his wealth provided.

Twenty long years distorted the both of them beyond recognition.

Hubert grew haggard under the weight of his lifestyle, looking older by the minute while Dechtire hadn’t aged a day.

Humans, she knew, aged quickly, died before they even hit a century, but to see the process

“Why do you bother making yourself look so young,” he hiccoughed across the dining table one evening, “It’s not going to make me think you’re beautiful.”

At that, she willed her hair grey, her skin lined, her hands bony.

“Would you prefer I look like this?” she asked innocently, “Like you?”

He threw a bread roll across the table and missed her by several feet.

“You used to try,” he said bitterly, “I’d come home to a different woman in my bed, night after night.”

“Some of those women weren’t me.”

“On a good night. But you were always just down the hall, reading my books, wearing my money. What am I feeding a city for?”

Dechtire did not know when he stopped supplying the Frigabror, but every fibre of her being was certain he had.

She hadn’t needed to hear it from the clan themselves.

Not that she heard much from her mother anymore. The poor woman had given up trying to reach through to a daughter so deeply ashamed of her choices she could not find a single thing to say to her mother.

“You are the biggest mistake I ever made,” said Hubert.

“And you mine.”

That night she locked the door to her room before settling in, knowing full well what mood he was likely to be in, especially when she had dug away at his remaining self-esteem.

The lock, however, did not prevent him from kicking the door over and over until she had no choice but to open it for him.

The candlelight from the hallway lit up his sallow face, casting shadows, making him look almost monstrous.

He spoke softly, as he often did in the night, “You look beautiful in the dim light.”

“You don’t.”

A toothy grin spread across his face and for a moment he was the young man she’d met all those years ago.

“You like to hide in shadows, don’t you?” he asked, the grin fixed, stepping towards her. “You know how to trick a man. Even when you wear your true face.”

“You continued drinking after dinner?”

With a burst of energy, she had not thought him capable, Hubert lunged for her dresser and tipped it on its side.

They both stared at the mess he had made, before he turned his focus back to her.

“You,” he breathed, taking another step towards her, “You.”

And then it was as though a fog passed through him. His eyes turned glassy and his breath ragged. Without saying another word to her, he turned and took himself to bed.

She took great pleasure in breakfasting alone the following morning, but when dusk rolled in and Hubert had yet to appear, she resigned herself to checking on him.

His room was not locked and, upon peering inside, she saw his bed was made perfectly. Either he had taken it upon himself to tidy or he hadn’t gone to bed at all.

So where had he gone?

Disappointed that he had failed to die in his sleep once more, Dechtire returned to her daily pleasures, hoping whatever trip her husband was on would be a long one.

Disappointment won out again as she was awoken in the dead of the night by the deeply unnecessary slam of the front door. And again, when his boot hit her door repeatedly.

“What do you want?” she cried, leaping from the bed to open the door.

There stood Hubert, skin clouded and blistered, clothing stained with what was certainly blood.

“I paid a visit to your darling village. I brought you back a gift,” he said, tired but triumphant.

From behind his back he produced a bloodied and burnt head, swinging by its remaining hairs.

Her breath and body stilled as the face of the thing turned towards her.

“Ma?”

**Part Four**

She was covered in Hubert’s blood, had butchered him in such haste that his body had spouted at her from all over.

Fervently, she half-dove into the wash-basin, arms fully drenched, nose skimming the surface. After a few uneven, gulping breaths, she submerged her entire head, fingers scraping at her face vigorously. How much of the water was now blood? Was she just letting the wisps of red travel through the water from her skin to fold into her matted mass of hair?

It didn’t matter.

She pulled out instinctively, gasping for air.

A heavy splattering of water followed. Her clothes were drenched as was the stone floor.

“It’s not fair,” she thought bitterly, crying and choking and dripping with bloodied water.

It was then that she saw the unnatural darkness in the mirror above the basin.

For a moment she thought she had managed to snuff every candle in the room with her careless splashing. But there was light around her. Only darkness in the reflection.

She leaned over the basin, nose skimming the glass this time. Still only darkness. Not the absence of reflection. Not as though the mirror itself had been blackened. Instead it was as though she herself was scratched out and blurred. A drop of ink that shimmered and shimmied in perfect time with her movements.

Then, with a rasping voice that permeated like teeth biting down on chalk, the blackness grew a mouth and said, “No. It’s not.”

Jumping back, she realised she’d gone mad.

Finally.

Or she’d been mad for a long time and this was something beyond madness.

“No,” came the voice from the mirror, “You’re not.”

Her hand flew to her lips, feeling for movement.

“No, dear.”

Her lips only moved to tremble.

“It’s not fair. You’re not mad. And you’re not going to let this break you.”

Dechtire doubted every single one of those statements.

“Come closer, dear,” said the mirror, with such sweetness she felt compelled to obey.

Nose to glass once more, shapes emerged from the darkness. Arms and legs and horns and that mouth. That mouth which smiled at her with sharp teeth and a sharper tongue.

The mirror held a devil woman, cloaked in shifting darkness.

“Your world,” the devil said, “Is a dismal place. It makes kings of the cruel; dust of the kind. My world is the same. I’ve been a queen, a slave, a wife, a prisoner, and, worst of all, ignored.”

Dechtire let out a tiny sigh of something close to relief.

The devil continued, “I learnt long ago that intention means nothing. The world will mould your life blindly. Born screaming into chaos, who among us doesn’t die the same.”

“I know,” replied Dechtire, her throat and eyes uncomfortably dry. “I know.”

“I know you know. I know you. Just as you know me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I am Lilith,” she said.

But that wasn’t all she said.

“I am,” she said, “You are,” she said, “We are,” she said.

And just as much as the words blended together, each one of them was heard.

“Lilith,” said the one.

“Lilith,” said the other.

For a flicker of a moment there was no difference.

Then there were candles dancing in the corner of the mirror. And the only eyes staring back from above her nose were the familiar big, round, brown ones she knew as her own.

“Lilith,” she said.

Bloody and screaming, she was born. Just as she had been once to her mother. Again, by a different name.

 

 


End file.
